Those Pale Hands
by Redoran
Summary: (Title has been changed - formerly Those Hairy Palms) What if one of George's crazy theories... turned out to be true? (Written in collaboration with the wonderful MissJEDoe)
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note:_** _Written with the help of MissJEDoe, my friend who has become something of a popular writer of Murdoch fic, and the person who got me watching/reading MM in the first place! Enjoy!_

* * *

"Jules, my darling! Still spending your evenings with the dead, huh?"

Julia stopped and rolled her eyes. Her sister, always a charmer. She pulled a thin blanket over the body she had been working on and turned around, leaning with her hands on the table. Her sister stood in the doorway of the morgue, shorter than her but with hands on hips, ever-defiant. At her arm stood a tall, blonde-haired man. Her latest catch.

"Ruby – I didn't know you were in town again! And so soon after last time. How long has it been – a month?"

Ruby laughed in that way she did. "Nearly three months, actually. Your memory is usually so good. You're slipping, Jules!"

"I'm sorry, I'm just... preoccupied, is all," Julia said.

Ruby swished over in her long gown, her face alight with girlish smiles. "Preoccupied? So... Has my Jules found herself a suitor with a pulse at last?"

"Actually, yes I have. We have dinner reservations at the Red Count at six, but It's four o'clock already and I'm really behind with my work."

Ruby didn't pick up on the thinly-veiled hint. "Is it that sweet detective from the station-house again?"

Julia's red cheeks and pursed lips were all the answer that Ruby needed. "I knew it!"

"I didn't say anything!" Julia protested.

"Oh Jules, you may have always been the brains of the two of us, but you really aren't very savvy when it comes to... romance," she swung on the arm of her tall boyfriend, staring up at him with barely-masked adoration. "I saw your detective pacing his office, looking very flustered and clenching a bouquet of flowers like he was holding a revolver! He looked so nervous, that poor man. It's a good thing that lovely constable George was there with him to give him some advice. I bet he's had a lot of experience with the ladies," she giggled. "This is Jonas, by the way."

The young man took Julia's hand gracefully and kissed it with a pair of very soft lips, then kissed her with a pair of intimate blue eyes. "Herr Jonas Kalmar. It's a pleasure to meet you madame." He _was _a handsome man, Julia conceded. Very handsome. Much better looking than that Mr Wells Ruby had brought back with her once.

"Jonas is an officer in the Swedish army," Ruby said, gesturing to his impressive blue uniform.

Julia managed to pull her eyes away from his. "Very impressive. So, what brings you to Toronto, Mr Kalmar?"

"My _fader_ owns a plot of land outside the city. I'm just here to visit the family while I'm on leave. I had the pleasure of running into Miss Ruby Ogden here when I stepped off the boat."

Ruby was grinning. "He looked such a fool, wandering round the docks all hopeless, I could do nothing but pity him!" They both laughed.

It was then that Julia noticed William Murdoch, standing in the doorway of her morgue. "William!" she exclaimed and a smile flashed across her face. "I didn't notice you standing there!"

Ruby smiled. "We'll leave you two lovebirds alone," she said with a glint in her eye.

When they were gone, Julia grinned at William. She smoothed down her dress, hoping he would notice it. "You're early," she said.

He wasn't smiling. "I know. Julia, we are going to have to postpone our dinner. There's been a murder."


	2. Chapter 2

_Eight hours prior..._

* * *

Eunice Pryce was on her way to a party in the back of a carriage.

It was the biggest party there would be this year, and all the big names of Toronto would be there: Mr Pendrick, probably going on about his most recent venture in the film industry; Her father, though he would be arriving at the party later, of course, when he came back from the gentleman's club all tipsy after a few expensive glasses of spiced wine. Monsieur Motierre would be there, the wealthy and established French-Canadian whose forefathers were the first men to settle in the city, if the rumours were to be believed. That fearful police chief Giles was likely to be there too, but Eunice didn't care much for him.

The one she really cared about was that handsome Swedish man, Herr Kalmar.

Too bad that the Ogden girl had gotten to him first. If she hadn't, Eunice would be all over him in a heartbeat. He was so handsome... better than the drips that her father usually set her up with, with their eyeglasses and balding combovers.

To hell with it, she planned to be all over Jonas tonight whether Ruby liked it or not. The Ogden girl had less than a perfect reputation, and there was nothing she could do in public to stop her. Besides, Eunice _deserved _to courta good-looking man for a change. She would steal him tonight. There was no way a man like that could resist her charm. She was the most beautiful girl in Toronto, and the best dancer, and the most well-mannered. She had her personal tutors to thank for that, the ones her father had paid for. That man will be mine before the end of the night, she decided.

The carriage stopped moving.

"Martin? What's going on out there?" she called the name of her driver. "Martin?"

Things were quiet for a while. Very quiet. What had happened?

She heard footsteps outside. "Martin?"

There was silence again, and then -

The door window shattered. Something moved in the darkness. She screamed and the door was wrenched open – the old lock shattered as if it wasn't there.

"Shush! Shut up or I'll cut your throat!" a voice commanded. She did as she was told.

A figure climbed in with her. Hold on... "I know you," she said.

"Hold still," he said. "Please?" This time his voice was soft, and she was compelled to listen.

His teeth grazed her neck, borderline between lover and killer. Her breath caught in her throat. "What on Earth are you doing...?" An arm came around her.

She pushed away and threw herself against the door on the opposite side of the carriage. Thankfully the lock was weak on that side too and she fell onto the road, but she was quickly up on her feet and running.

"You're going to wish you hadn't done that."

He leapt from the carriage as lithely as a cat. She ran for her life, but she didn't get far.

Her beautiful dress got caught around her heels and brought her down, and a blink later he was on her, pinning her down with an iron strength that she couldn't fight. A hand clamped over her mouth and that was the last she knew.


	3. Chapter 3

The two constables placed the body on the morgue table. Emily and Julia began the brief check-over of the body for external cuts, bruises, damage, that sort of thing. They didn't expect to find anything like that this time though. As the girl had been found at home in her bed, the women assumed she had died in her sleep.

"Such a tragedy, to die so young. What was her name?" Julia asked.

"Eunice Pryce," George said.

"Eunice." Emily traced a finger down the arm. "This dress is so fine! I wish I could afford such expense. Her family was rich then?"

"Yes, very wealthy,' George said. "The Pryce family have lived in Toronto for over a hundred years, according to the city records. Mr Pryce is said to own a manufactory in the city centre. It is also said," George leaned in, "that Mr Pryce has a very fearful temper."

"Really?" Julia asked. "Interesting."

"Indeed," George said. "In fact, there are numerous reports of him beating his wife – in public! - when they were newlyweds. He claims that those days are behind him, but, I went around his street questioning the neighbours, and they say that they sometimes hear his wife weeping at night! I think that if he's capable of doing such things to his wife, it wouldn't be beyond him to be hurting his daughter as well."

"It's possible, I grant you," Julia said, "but hardly conclusive evidence."

"_I_ think your theory is very feasible, George," Emily said with a warm smile.

George was visibly pleased at that. "Why, thank you doctor. I just wish the Inspector thought the same."

"Hold on. What's this?" Julia peered closer at Eunice's neck.

"What is it?" Emily asked.

She looked closer. There were two small holes in Eunice's neck, both directly puncturing the jugular vein.

"These have been done very precisely," Julia noted. "Perhaps with a knife point – they're barely visible, almost as if someone didn't want them to be seen."

"And they obviously wanted to kill her. If the jugular vein is pierced, they will have lost a lot of blood," Emily said.

"She is certainly pale enough to have suffered an extreme amount of blood loss," Julia agreed.

George's eyes widened. "Vampires!" he exclaimed, making the women jump a little.

"George?" Emily asked.

"It's like that case! With the schoolgirls!"

"Oh yes, I remember," Julia said with her lips tight. She remembered that little girl who had killed her friend to become more popular. That was bad enough, but also, s_he had flirted with William!_

"Except this time it _has_ to be vampires," George said. "Look at the puncture marks. Last time they had been obviously rounded and man-made. But these are cut... sliced, almost. Like _fangs!_"

"Oh, George," Julia sighed.


	4. Chapter 4

"Don't be stupid, Crabtree," Brackenreid said. "There's no such thing as vampires."

"But sir, you haven't seen the puncture marks!" George protested.

"And I don't plan to," Brackenreid shuddered. "Those girls enjoy their bloody work too much, I tell you."

Murdoch came out of his office. "George, are you talking about vampires again?" he asked wearily.

"Yes sir, but trust me, this time it really could be-"

"I don't want to hear any more about vampires, Crabtree! This is getting out of hand. You're like a bloody child!" Brackenreid said.

"Sorry sir," George said, looking at the floor.

Brackenreid shook his head in exasperation. "Now. Have you made any progress in the case, Murdoch?"

"Regrettably little, sir. We've searched her room. No sign of forced entry, and no fingermarks to speak of. Not even on her bedsheets."

"Bloody hell, Murdoch. The killer broke into the house, stabbed her in the neck, laid her on the bed – and you're telling me you've found no trace whatsoever?"

"We found her coach-driver Mr Martin lying in the high street this morning, sir, next to his abandoned carriage – he's in the interview room now," George said.

Brackenreid huffed. "I need answers, and I need them now. Her father is out there as we speak," he jerked a thumb in the direction of the front desk, "and he is demanding news. Am I supposed to tell him we've found nothing?" Their silence said it all for him. He wiped a hand over his face. "He isn't going to like that. Not at all. He has a bloody temper you know, Murdoch."

"Inspector! Here! Now!" Mr Pryce bellowed from the other room and the Inspector winced.

"And so do I. You'd better start making some progress, and soon."

When the Inspector was gone, George and Murdoch shared a look and puffed their cheeks.

"Inspector's not in the best mood, is he?" George said.

"No, no he's not. Have you and Henry found any other leads?" Murdoch asked.

"Well, actually I have several interesting theories for you-"

Murdoch raised his hands. "No George, no monsters or werewolves or fairies. Just evidence."

"Oh," George said. "In that case, other than Mr Martin, no, sir."

"I suppose we'd better go and have a word with him, then."

* * *

Murdoch took a seat opposite Mr Martin, the Pryce family retainer.

He was a man with a bit of a belly and a thick layer of greying stubble covering a fat neck. He had lazy eyes, most of his teeth were missing, and he wore a flat cap to hide some hair that was probably balding.

He rested his hand on his head when the detective, the constable, and Dr Ogden entered. He looked to be in some pain. George thought he looked quite like a toad in human clothes. The toad looked up at Murdoch as he took out a notebook.

"Mr Martin?" Murdoch asked.

"Aye," he grunted.

"You were found on the sidewalk of the Toronto high street, at 6am this morning, next to an abandoned carriage. Is that correct?"

He nodded. "That's right."

"What happened last night?"

"I dunno. I was unconscious, weren't I?"

"You remember none of it?" Murdoch asked.

"None," he said, his voice grating and groggy.

"And where were you going at such a late hour?"

"I don't remember."

"I see." He looked at George, who just shrugged. Murdoch tried again. "You work for Mr Pryce, is that right?"

"Yes."

"Did he send you out last night, or...?"

Mr Martin made a visible effort to search his memory, but apparently found nothing. "I don't know," he replied simply.

Murdoch gritted his teeth. "Sir, you're not being very helpful."

The man opened his arms. "I's telling the truth, sir. I don't remember any of it. My last memory, I was going out to feed the animals, which I always do around midday. Next thing I knew I was lying on the street with a policeman standing over me. That's the truth of it."

Julia pulled Murdoch delicately aside by his arm. His heart sped up at her touch, despite his attempt to stay focused on the case. "William, he has memory loss. He looks like he's suffered a concussion. Maybe he fell from the carriage? You should have brought him straight to me – he could be very hurt!"

"Very well doctor, you can see to him in a minute - but is there any way we can jog his memory?"

She placed her hands on her hips. "Surely you aren't going to interview him in this state?"

"He is our only lead and her father is desperate-"

"Then tell him to wait!" Julia looked at him. "William I won't allow it."

"Julia..."

"No."

"You can look at him afterwards, but I need information. Without this, we're clutching at straws."

"William, I can't call myself a serious doctor if I allow you to proceed like this!"

"Julia, a girl has been murdered. We have no leads, no fingermarks to go on - and each hour the killer slips further from our grasp. Help me."

She looked at him with eyes that burned with fury and he knew he'd pushed her limits."Oh very well. Show him a picture of the girl. If he knows anything about her death, that will jog his memory." He went to speak, but she spoke first. "William I thought you were better than this."

She stormed out of the interview room, Murdoch watching after her, mouth agape.

George eventually spoke. "Sir, shall I...?"

"No George, stay here," Murdoch said.

"Very well."

Mr Martin was staring at them now, obviously perplexed. Murdoch cleared his throat. He took a small thumbnail photograph of Ms Pryce from the case file.

Mr Martin's toady eyes widened when he saw it. "Wait... Eunice?" he tried to stand but Murdoch put a hand on his shoulder.

"What happened?" Murdoch asked. "Where were you taking her?"

"I was taking her to the Motierre house for the annual ball." Mr Martin was panicking. "We were attacked! He pulled me from the seat!"

Murdoch leaned in. "Who? Who did?"

"I didn't see his face, but he was finely dressed – tell me where is Eunice now? I must see her!"

Murdoch looked at George. They shared an apologetic look. This was always the hardest part of the job for them both. Murdoch looked back at the man. "She's dead, sir."

"Dead...?" The look in his eyes was almost too much for Murdoch to handle. "On my watch? No..."

Maybe he should have been taken to Julia after all. "George, take him to a cell – a comfortable one. And get Miss Ogden back over here."

"Right away, sir."

* * *

_**Author's Note: **Thankyou for all the positive feedback guys! It's very fun to see you all speculating. There's plenty more in store ;)_


	5. Chapter 5

They arrived at the Motierre Manor just after midday. It was built on a steep hill about a mile out from the city, one of the few buildings in the area that had been built out of stone in the 1600s – that was probably why it was one of the few buildings from that era still standing. It still brimmed with opulent Colonial charm, Murdoch thought as he and the Inspector walked up the marble garden steps to the entrance, a big pair of heavy oak doors, carved and then set-in with gold leaf.

"Remember, Murdoch, let me do the talking. Mr Motierre is an odd type, but he's alright if you know him well enough."

"Gladly, sir," Murdoch replied. "I must admit I don't mix much with these noble types."

"Ah, don't worry about it, me old mucka – they're just like us... well, not exactly, but close enough." The Inspector chuckled, but Murdoch couldn't see what was funny about it. "You might like Mr Motierre. He's very eccentric. Much like James Pendrick, actually."

"If he's anything like Mr Pendrick, I might struggle to understand him at all, sir."

Brackenreid laughed. "No-one truly understands Mr Motierre, Murdoch. But he's not a bad man."

They were greeted at the door by the house maid, Myrtle Beech.

"Ah, yes, we're here to see Mr Motierre. Is he in?" Brackenreid asked.

"Yes, he's just upstairs. I'll go fetch him. Come in, sirs, please – make yourself comfortable."

They removed their coats and hats and hung them on the clothes rack, and Brackenreid left his cane leaning by the door. He then led the way straight down the voyeur, past at least half a dozen doors, straight into the parlour, where he took a seat in one of the Motierre family's expensive couches.

"You seem to know your way around here well, sir," Murdoch said.

"Yes, well, Ive been to many Motierre balls in my time in Toronto. You really should come one of the times, Murdoch – I'm not much for parties, bur Mr Motierre is a gracious host."

"I'll take your word for it," Murdoch said doubtfully.

"Ah, gentlemen from the constabulary! How may I help you?" Ambrose Motierre said, standing in the parlour entrance. Strange, Murdoch hadn't heard him approach. He was certainly a man of finery; his grey hair was slicked back on his head and bound in a neat ponytail. He wore a frock coat with tails down to to knees, and an embroidered waistcoat the colour of burgundy wine. His lips were thin and his nose sharp and pointed. His skin was pale - but not unhealthily so, Murdoch mused.

"Ambrose! A pleasure to see you again!" Brackenreid announced and offered an eager handshake. Ambrose Motierre chuckled; a laugh like silk.

"I must admit Inspector, you were sorely missed at last night's celebrations."

"Alas, I had urgent business at the station house. A girl was murdered last night, you know?"

Ambrose's hand went to his chest. "Murdered? How terrible."

"Yes, on the way to your home," Murdoch pointed out, afraid the Inspector was getting drawn away from the purpose of their visit. The Inspector looked at him for a minute.

"Erm – yes, exactly why were are here, Ambrose. You didn't happen to see anything unusual last night, did you?"

"Last night? Oh, no. I mean, there was an argument between Brandon Pryce and some ponsy Englishman – one Edmund Tyrell, I believe – in the gardens, but he was back inside within a few minutes so whatever it was it can't have been that important."

"Brandon Pryce?" Murdoch asked.

"Oh yes, I forget you don't mingle much with the gentry, detective," Ambrose Motierre said. "Brandon Pryce is the son of Logan Pryce." Murdoch looked at him blankly.

"Eunice's father," Brackenreid nudged him.

"Ah, thankyou. So, when Mr Tyrell returned from the gardens, did Brandon Pryce return with him?" Murdoch asked.

Mr Motierre seemed to give it some thought. "No, come to think of it, he didn't." He shrugged dismissively. "He must've gone home."

"I'm sure," Murdoch said sardonically. "You don't mind if we have a look around, do you?"

Mr Motierre was trying to gauge whether the detective was mocking him or not. Eventually he waved his hand and said: "Not at all, not at all. What's mine is yours... Well, as long as you take any of it with you," he laughed in that soft way again.

"What do you think?" Brackenreid whispered when Mr Motierre was out of earshot.

"He's hiding something," Murdoch said.

Brackenreid straightened his collar uncomfortably. "I hate to admit it, friend of mine as he is, but I think you're right. Something doesn't sit right about this."

"I think we need to go for a walk in Mr Motierre's garden," Murdoch said.

"I think you're right," Brackenreid replied.

* * *

"I've found something, sir!" Murdoch shouted from where he squatted on the grass. The garden was large and very flat, interspersed with maple trees and oak trees and cobbled walkways lined with flower beds and shrubbery – all of it very clean and well-kept... apart from the area where Murdoch was. The grass was stained by dried blood. It had even seeped into the soil, and some of the blades were glued together.

"Lord almighty," Brackenreid said. "That's blood."

"I believe it is, sir. And what's more... there's a trail." Murdoch pointed along the garden, where smaller patches of red formed a patchwork path across the grass, eventually finishing at the foot of a large foxwood bush. They looked at each other. Murdoch hurried over, Brackenreid not far behind, and he pulled the leaves and twigs away.

The body of Brandon Pryce was lying on the dirt, arms crossed over his chest like an Egyptian pharaoh. In one hand he clutched a red rose and in the other, a black lotus. There was a hole in his chest, and blood had oozed out of it to stain his fine shirt and coat. Murdoch made the sign of the cross.

Mr Motierre was standing at the upstairs window, watching them.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's Note: **__In the last part I said that the Motierre Manor was built in the 1600s, and some of you noted that Toronto didn't exist until at least the mid-1700s. I must admit I was walking a fine line with this, but hear me out: There were trade posts built by the Hudson Bay company in the Great Lakes region as early as 1611, and in my mind the Motierre family were French and had come across to Quebec (specifically Acadia) when it was first settled in 1604, and then moved south when the French relinquished control to Britain in the mid-1700s, and refurbished an old trading-post - maybe that they used their family fortune to buy? I wanted them to have a sense of history, that they were one of the very first Europeans to settle in Canada, which is why I set the date so early. It may not be _completely _accurate, but hey, we're writing monsters and demons here, so a little historical inaccuracy can be overlooked ;) it's great to see people that are as passionate about history as me though - high five! And now, the story - the action is heating up!_

**_Another Author's Note:_**_ Rewritten! Sorry about that last slip-up._

* * *

Julia scored a thin cut down Brandon's chest. Outside was pitch dark and no light filtered through the morgue windows, so Julia had lit several smoky oil lamps so she could see to perform the autopsy properly.

Dr Grace had retired some hours ago. Julia liked to work alone, but she hated feeling isolated, and it was easy to get a little lonely when you spent a night in a building where the only company were dead bodies. She had her gramophone rolling, but the night was dark and oppressive, and her argument with William in the interview room weighed heavily on her mind.

The wound – once the body had been stripped and it cleaned – was quite clearly a bullet hole, but somewhat larger than what Julia was used to seeing. On further inspection she had found a musketball sunk a good six inches into his flesh, the kind used on the battlefields of Europe in the 1500s. To find one in the corpse of a Canadian gentleman in 1902 was exceptionally odd. _How peculiar,_ Julia had thought when she first plucked it from the body. _William will be very interested to see this._

Her heart fluttered as she thought of William. Whenever they had an argument, it was always her who had to patch it up again in the end. Again she was doubting whether her reaction had been justified. William _had _had a point – they needed to interview that man as soon as possible. But it had really taken it's toll on him. Causing someone emotional trauma while suffering from a concussion was very dangerous to their health. No, she was in the right, and William was in the wrong.

Yet whenever they argued he always kept his distance, stayed quiet – perhaps too awkward to approach her, but she wished he would take the initiative sometimes. Now that she was single again – following Darcy's death, God rest him – there was no reason why William should delay in proposing to her anymore. She was not getting any younger, after all.

She jumped when she heard an insistent knock on the door. _Who would come calling at this hour?_ It could be William, she tried to convince herself, but she knew it wouldn't be. She sighed and opened the door, and all thought of William fell from her mind.

Because Herr Jonas stood there, and he was frightened. "_Hjälp mig doktor!_"

"I'm sorry?"

He pushed past her and into the light of the morgue, and she saw that his blonde hair was riddled with blood. His bright blue eyes darted around the room in terror. "Hide me, please. Just hide me."

"Erm – right away." She opened the storage freezer where the fresh cadavers were kept before they were taken to the graves. She ushered him inside. "It's not pleasant, but-"

He went in without a word of complaint. "Thankyou, doktor."

Someone banged on the door. "Open up in there!"

Julia froze.

"I saw him go in there, Doctor Ogden. That man is dangerous. Just hand him over, and we'll leave."

Jonas's voice was muffled from inside the freezer. "Please don't. They'll kill me."

Julia considered phoning the Stationhouse but immediately abandoned it. Even if there were any constables there this time of night, it would take them too long to get there. She looked around desperately for a solution.

Then she saw the bullet lying on the autopsy table, and she had an idea. In her best, most authorative tone, she commanded: "Get away from my door. I have a gun."

The banging stopped. When the voice came again, it was slightly uncertain. "No you don't."

"Yes, I do," Julia said.

"Prove it."

Julia picked up the musketball and passed it through the letterbox; cold, pale hands took it from her. She pressed her fingers to the glass in the shape of a gun. "Now back away, before I put another one in your skull," she told them. The sound of quickly fading footsteps was music to her ears.

"You can come out now, Mr Kalmar."

"Thankyou, Miss Ogden," he said and kissed her hand softly.

"Come over here. You're hurt. Let me clean you up." She beckoned him over to her equipment, but he shook his head.

"_nej_ - thankyou, doctor, but my family have their own physician - but that is very kind of you."

"Well, at least go to the station house in the morning."

He shook his head again, but she wouldn't take it. "No, sir. If what I've seen tonight is any indication, you're in great danger. You need the constabulary's protection." It then occurred to her that just a few days ago Ruby had been inseparable from this man. She wasn't there now. If he had been in danger, could she be too?

"Mr Kalmar? Where is my sister?"

His relieved smile was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "Oh she is safe, don't worry. She left me."

Julia was about to ask why, but she decided it was very much like her sister to leave a man for no reason. Perhaps there was another celebrity in town. "How dreadful of her – but I must say, that is not unlike her."

He shrugged. "I think I knew that when I first saw her, doctor_._ But she was so... _vänlig. _Kind. I had hoped she was different," he sighed. "We had dinner reservations for tomorrow."

Julia saw her opportunity then. She was sure that Mr Kalmar was key to this mystery – the killings had only started when he arrived, and now he was the only victim in this case that had survived at attempt on their life. If she could get close to him, learn why those men were after him, maybe she could find the missing piece to the investigation.

"I'll go with you, if you want. Saves the money you spent being wasted."

Herr Kalmar smiled, with her white teeth and blue eyes. Even stained with blood, he was quite handsome. "Yes. That would be nice."

"But you must allow me to wipe up that blood," she insisted.

He sighed. "Very well."


	7. Chapter 7

Inspector Brackenreid dragged Mr Motierre into the interview room by the collar of his expensive shirt. Mr Motierre didn't struggle, but he snarled when he was thrust in the direction of the interview chair. Mr Pryce had just visited the stationhouse, shouting and baying for blood, and the Inspector's feathers were ruffled by having to submit to such treatment in his own place of work. He wasn't in the best of moods.

"Okay, Ambrose, talk," he commanded.

Ambrose Motierre sat and straightened his clothes. He linked his hands and rested them on the table. "I don't know what to say," he replied.

The Inspector leant on the desk. "Maybe you should start with why a brother and sister died at your ball last night."

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Is it?" the Inspector snarled. "Come on then. Let's hear your guess."

Ambrose looked at him. "Don't mock me Inspector."

Brackenreid raised his hands dramatically. "No no no, I wouldn't – perish the thought. I just want to hear what you have to say."

Ambrose looked at him through slit-eyes. "Very well. As drastic and far-fetched as this may be, I think Edmund Tyrell killed him." His voice dripped with impudence.

"What makes you say that?"

"He had a duelling pistol hidden beneath his coat," Motierre stated flatly.

"Interesting. You know what I think? I think you have some kind of vendetta against the Pryce's, and that you hired Mr Tyrell to hijack Eunice's carriage and then shoot Brandon Pryce."

That seemed to grab the thin man's attention. "That's not the case." The detective had struck a nerve. He decided to push it.

"Maybe something happened that finally pushed you over the edge? Something involving your children?" the Inspector accused.

Ambrose's mouth was tight and he was tense. He looked down at the desk. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you know exactly what I mean. Your daughter Isabelle was courting Brandon."

"How do you know about that?" Motierre asked, eyes wide.

The Inspector smiled. "Let's just say your family business isn't as secret as you like to think." Higgins had been unusually productive on this case, and had found out this little nugget of information from the family's servant, Myrtle Beech. "So, is that why you had him killed?"

"I didn't have him killed."

"Is this some kind of family feud? You couldn't stand the idea of your daughter courting such as man – your family, with it's high-and-mighty French roots, couldn't possibly stoop so low as to marry into dirty, Presbyterian, Scottish blood. But, you saw it going all Romeo and Juliet-shaped, so you had him shot before your daughter got hurt-"

"I did not have him killed!" Mr Motierre was on his feet now, pale hands on the desk, trembling. "I love Logan Pryce like a brother. I would never hurt his children."

"Oh? And why's that?"

"He is a long time friend of mine, and I – well, my servants – often took care of those two when Logan was out of town-"

"Don't lie to me, Ambrose. You know I see right through you."

"All right, all right. Logan was a compulsive drinker. When we were younger, he... got violent easily. I would take the children in when they ran away from home."

"Alright. Fair enough. Why would you lie about that?"

"Because I knew that would make Logan a suspect. Trust me, as bad as it may look, Logan would never have killed his children."

* * *

"He was telling the truth, Inspector," Julia said when Motierre had been taken back to his cell.

"You're sure of it?"

"Absolutely."

"And how would you know?"

"Loyalty is a very difficult emotion to fake believably. He was sincere. Whether this is all down to a family feud or not I couldn't say, but it is obvious that he, at least, did not want the children dead." She looked at William who nodded briskly in approval. They were still not talking.

"Hmph. So, now our only suspect is that Mr Tyrell," Brackenreid huffed.

Murdoch chimed in. "It's not possible that it was him alone though, sir. The carriage murder was on the other side of the city from the Motierre manor – one man couldn't travel that far in thirty minutes."

"That's true," Brackenreid conceded. "And we have the assault on Mr Kalmar too. Goddamn it. Two brothers dead and a Swede attacked. They're dropping like flies around us and we have no clue whatsoever," he sighed. "George?"

"Yessir."

"Go and find this Edmund Tyrell. I want to have a word with him."

"Yessir."

"Murdoch, go find Higgins. Tell him to root out the city records for the families of Motierre and Pryce. I want to know everything I can about them. Oh and Kalmar as well."

"Right away, sir," Murdoch said and strode off, avoiding Julia's eye. She wanted to tell him she was having dinner with Jonas later, but as she watched him walk away she realised that if he wasn't going to make the effort, neither was she.

She turned and walked in a separate direction with the intention of having time alone with Doctor Grace. She didn't need his permission anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Author's Note: _**_Sorry I haven't published for so long :s the deadlines for my coursework were this week, so I've been working on that. End of term is coming up though, so expect a return to this story shortly - in the meantime, he's the latest chapter I've been working on..._

* * *

Higgins was sorting through the papers he'd found at city hall, thinking about how the detective never seemed to do any of the dirty work. The hours of sifting through records, papers, and damn _fingermarks –_ those jobs all fell to him and George, and today George had found some excuse to get out of it. He was probably walking in the park with Dr Grace, he thought. Just like Dr Ogden was out at dinner with that Swedish officer. Why did everyone seem to get girls apart from him? _I'm not ugly,_ Higgins thought, _so it can't be that._

"Higgins! Why aren't you working?"

Murdoch's voice startled him from his thoughts. "I am, sir!" He motioned to the paperwork. "I was just thinking is all."

"Oh? What about?"

"Oh, nothing, sir, nothing," Higgins said dismissively.

Murdoch's eyes lingered on him for a moment. "...Alright. You haven't seen Miss Ogden by any chance, have you?"

"Nope!" Higgins said, a little too quickly.

"That was a hasty answer, constable." He stared at him. "You have seen her, haven't you?"

Higgins's shoulders slumped. "Maybe."

"I only need to talk to her about the case. Is she so upset with me that she's avoiding me, now?" Murdoch looked a little sad at that, and it made Higgins feel sad for him, as bossy and demanding as he was.

"I have seen her, sir. She's... um. She's gone to dinner with someone."

"Oh." Murdoch shrugged. "I'll have to talk to her some other time then." He went to go back to his office, but stopped at the last second. "Do you know who with, by any chance?"

"I'm sure you'd rather not know, sir."

Murdoch turned back to him. "Who?"

"uh... you sure, sir?"

"Tell me, constable."

"She's out with that Swedish officer. The one who got banged up, can't remember his name. She was holding his arm."

Murdoch took a moment to reply, a moment long enough for Higgins to register how hit he was by it. "Right. Thankyou for telling me, constable. Back to work now." He walked away.

George dragged Edmund Tyrell into the interrogation room. Inspector Brackenreid stood with his hands on his hips, looking even bigger than he was. It had been a few days since he'd trimmed his sideburns and moustache, so he looked vicious and scary. It was all part of the interrogation act. _Get inside their minds, that's how to make em crack._ "Have a seat, Mr Tyrell."

"Much obliged, Inspector."

"Don't talk to me like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what like, you smug bastard. I know your type. I grew up in Yorkshire too, ya know."

"Oh, really? What brought you this far out from civilisation?"

The Inspector smiled. "People like you."

"Well, that's not very nice, Inspector," Tyrell retorted mildly.

"I don't tend to be nice to murderers."

"Oh, heard about that, did you? It wasn't a murder, Inspector. Just a simple... misunderstanding. Settled in the normal manner. Nothing to do with you."

"What are you talking about? Spit it out."

"You said you were from England? I'd have thought – oh... right, I'm guessing you're not a member of the gentry." He eyed the Inspector's savage facial hair. "That makes more sense."

"What happened in that garden, you pompous weed?"

"No need for that kind of language, _officer. _We had a duel. He lost. End of it."

"I'm afraid that's not the end of it. Duelling is an offence punishable by death, Mr Tyrell."

Mr Tyrell slammed his hand on the table. "Goddamned colonial peasants. I'm an Englishman and shall be treated under English law, not Canadian."

"That _is _the English law I'm afraid, Mr Tyrell. What were you thinking? Duelling has been illegal in the empire for over fifty years! A duel hasn't been fought in Britain since 1852, for crying out loud!"

Edmund Tyrell steepled his fingers. "No public ones, at least."


End file.
